


threads between our fingers

by starrynightsea (puppydeanandjen)



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, De-Aged Quentin Beck, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Strangers to Friends to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2020-07-27 10:37:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20044594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puppydeanandjen/pseuds/starrynightsea
Summary: Falling in love with Quentin was inevitable.





	1. Fall

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time writing for the MCU and I'm extremely nervous about posting this. I feel like this isn't my best work either which makes me more worried. I also haven't been feeling too great, so my brain is dead right now. I have an idea where this story is going but I'm running out of fuel to keep writing which is why I'm posting it now. 
> 
> Also, looking for a beta! Dm me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/PuppyLoey_) if you would like to be my beta. 
> 
> I do hope that you guys enjoy this story! ( ˘ ³˘)♥
> 
> (I hope that you get my one reference in this chapter lol)

In a random cafe a couple of blocks away from Aunt May’s apartment; that’s where Peter first laid eyes on him: the good looking stranger from across the way. 

He had needed a small break from the commotion: talk of the spreading grief that came with Mr. Stark’s sacrifice and the pressures placed upon him due to that. The world is expecting him to step up to the mantle—to be the next Iron Man—while he’s still stumbling through high school. 

The friendly neighborhood Spider-Man; that’s all he wants to be right now, that’s all he can be right now. And, yet, everyone else doesn’t want him to. 

But at least here, he can forget those responsibilities that come with his double life and pretend that he’s a normal high school student with normal problems. 

Normal problems like trying not to bore holes into the guy sitting by the window. 

Peter noticed him completely by chance.

A bitter aroma of coffee was swirling through the shop, intoxicating sleep-deprived visitors as they down cups to survive in the hustle and bustle of Queens. Led Zeppelin was streaming into his ears from the jacked-up earphones he’s lost in the washing machine multiple times. He was twirling a cheap mechanical pencil between his fingers as he finished double-checking the last equation on his homework to make sure he got it right—stalling for just a little bit of extra time until he can no longer ignore reality. 

Then, Peter just so happened to lean back against his chair for a breather and his eyes found him walking in. 

Tall, is what Peter first thought of him. Lanky is the second. Messy dark brown strands of hair that hang in stark contrast to clear, pale skin. Soft doe eyes, colored with heavy bags, oppose the sharpness of his jawline. 

And, as he strolled up to the counter, the guy smiled: wide and bright. 

Heat rose inside of Peter’s gut and his stomach suddenly felt all light as if something had unfurled deep within, floating up to the top of his lungs. 

Butterflies.

Now, he’s been sitting here for the past hour or so, fiddling with his phone since he’s been fake working on his math homework for way too long and it’s getting pretty suspicious. Although, that might just be his nerves getting to him. Plus, the stranger probably hasn’t even noticed since they don’t even know each other and why the hell would he care? 

But, also, it’s easier to stare at him this way since he doesn’t have to be constantly looking downward. 

Currently, the stranger is hunched over his table—the sleeves of his baggy NASA sweatshirt all rolled up to unveil toned muscles—, furiously writing notes like a mad man. There are textbooks and notes scattered across the wooden table to the point that Peter can’t even see the oak anymore. A stained, white coffee mug—already had three refills so far—rests on top of one of the many papers.

Peter wonders what he’s thinking about. What he’s reading. What he’s writing. 

The undying curiosity jumbles within his head. 

Suddenly, the guy flings himself backward against the chair with his arms sprawled across the top rail, head lolling over to the side and his eyes are staring out the window onto the busy city streets as the sun gently bathes his skin in a white hue, revealing this delicate, youthfulness in his features.

Pretty. 

Before he knows it, he’s clicking the photo app on his phone and taking a picture. The exposure is too bright, totally blurring out the face, making it more of a silhouette than anything. He points his camera back up to see that the stranger is looking straight at him. 

Holy shit. 

Peter drops his phone on the table. His heart is pounding against his chest rapidly, probably even more so than that time he got crushed under that rumble from his ‘thinking big’ days. 

He thinks that he might just die. 

Suddenly, a particular tingle that he knows all too well rings in his head. And, right on cue, a loud crash, an alarm, and a high pitched scream resonate across the city, grabbing the customers’ attention and dragging them to the windows and door. 

Quickly, Peter shoves his things into his backpack and rushes off towards the exit, hiding among the intrigued crowd. 

He catches a glimpse of the stranger before the horde swallows him up again. 

Their eyes don’t meet this time, but Peter is able to catch the murky blue in those pupils. 

He doesn’t think that he’ll get them out of his head anytime soon. 

\---

Peter stops by the cafe after he’s done his run through the neighborhood. 

It was exhausting. 

The city wasn’t exactly crime heavy, but the news reports presented on huge, bright screens were flooding the streets, repeatedly questioning things he doesn’t have answers to and stating things he doesn’t know how to live up to. Tiring. 

At this point, he simply wants to head home and drop dead for several hours. 

The guy isn’t by the window anymore—obviously, it’s already dark outside and he’s an idiot for believing that he might still be here—, so there’s no point in staying. He only wanted one more look before letting the stranger disappear into the vast sea. Stay in that moment for a little while longer and then properly say goodbye at the end. 

Just one minute. 

A minute that he never got to have. 

\---

Days pass along quickly and the last of the sun slips away behind incoming clouds, bringing in the rain that washes away the memories of the guy from before. 

School and hero work soon fill the cleared out space, restarting a cycle that he’s already familiar with: Peter Parker in the mornings and Spider-Man after the final bell of the day rang. It gives him a sort of stability in this drastically ever changing present. A constant that isn’t likely to change any time soon. 

Pattern means he knows what to expect.

So that’s why Friday ended up coming in like a freight train. 

School had just finished for the day. He was at his locker, picking up some books for homework. The hallways were crowded with rampaging students excited for the weekend off before having to repeat the week all over again. 

As he tried to shove his textbooks into his bag, he heard someone calling his name:

“Peter!” 

And his head flicks upward to see Ned coming over straight towards him. He’s about to close his locker when he spots an awfully familiar face that peeks out from above the group of girls, walking across the intersection. 

Short, brown hair, thick brows, deep eyes 

His throat goes dry.

It’s him. The stranger from the cafe. Holy shit. 

What the fuck is he doing here?

He then notices, as the group moves past, the blue sweatshirt the guy’s wearing; his school’s sweatshirt. 

“So your house?” 

Peter automatically slams the door to his locker and spins around, attention jerking towards Ned who is standing right in front of him now with a smile on his face. 

“Dude, you alright?” Ned asks, face contorting into concern. He bends in closer to whisper, “Is it your Peter-Tingle?”

“What? No, and stop calling it my Peter-Tingle” Peter says, leaning against the metal as normally as he can. Relaxed. Totally calm. Totally. “I’m fine just thinking about stuff”.

Smooth. Disbelief is clear in Ned’s expression.

“And what about my house?” he asks, attempting to divert the discussion to something else.

“You know, the game,” Ned replies, back to the grin, and Peter hopes that it means that he’s forgotten all about his fumble. “Apocalypse of the Damned.” 

The new release that they talked about in the morning. They were going to play it as soon as possible before spoilers came out. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Peter says, slinging the backpack over his shoulder. “My house. Tonight? Around five, after work. I’ll ask Aunt May if you can stay for dinner” 

“Sure, man,” Ned says. “See you then” 

Then he holds out his hand and Peter follows his movements as they perform their secret handshake. 

Once Ned was out of sight, the images from before rushed back into the front of his mind. 

Peter sneaks around the corner to confirm if his hallucinations are real. And there he was, standing in front of the principal's office, shaking the principal's hand with a charming, pearly white smile across his face. 

Peter’s heart skips a beat. 

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Their ‘meeting’ wasn’t supposed to have continuations.

It was a simple infatuation at first sight; that was all. Just a short rush through the veins before disappearing. 

Now, he’s here. Always in sight. Always in mind. 

God, what is he going to do?

There’s no use thinking about it now—he’s got a job to do after all. 

He’ll talk it out with Ned later. Maybe, that will help clear things up.

\---

“So let me get this straight,” Ned says. 

They’re sitting on the carpet of Peter’s bedroom, knock off Playstation controllers in their hands as they stare at the small monitor which is sitting on a small coffee table, displaying the ruins of a city left by the seemingly invincible undead. Peter found the screen and the console in a garbage bin near a lavish apartment building after falling into said bin. It was a little banged up, but still an easy fix.

“You took a stalker photo of a guy a month ago and now that guy happens to be the new transfer student?” 

“Yeah, basically,” Peter replies, his voice cracking at the end. He shoots another video game zombie through the broken window of the abandoned store they’re hiding out in while Ned chucks a grenade. 

“Why did you do it?” Ned asks. “Take the picture, I mean” 

“I don’t know. Thought he was good looking or something.” Peter mumbles out, switching to the machine gun, hoping that the gunshot sound effects would be able to drown him out. They’ve never talked about boys before in this way. “It was kind of an automatic reaction.” 

“Do you like him?” Ned asks in his typical cheery kind of voice. Like it’s completely normal and not strange or weird or gross. A sigh of relief slips out from Peter’s lips. 

“Yes. no. Maybe? I barely even know him.” 

They both peek out to check if the coast is clear before moving out of the store and onto the main road. 

“Wait, so you don’t have a crush on MJ anymore?” 

“MJ?” Peter asks, shoulders tensing. He glances over to see if Ned is being serious. “I’m not-I don’t have a crush on MJ. I mean she’s cool and funny and smart and it’s great that we’re hanging out a lot more often. But we’re just-” 

“Oh shit,” Ned swears as a zombie charges at them out of nowhere. Thankfully, Peter is able to shoot him down before he attacks. “Thanks, man”

“No problem,” Peter replies, continuing to march on forward.“But, yeah we’re just friends. On the way to good friends, I think.”

“Replacing me, I see”

Peter chuckles, taking his eyes off the screen to face Ned and nudging his best friend in the arm, “Nah dude, you’ll always be my guy in the chair”. 

“And you’ll always be my fourth favorite Avenger” 

A grin stretches across both of their faces.

Suddenly a loud groan rumbles from the speakers and their attention is brought back to the screen filled with treacherous horrors of a collapsed world.

“Anyways,” Peter starts after they’ve killed a couple more of the living dead. “what am I supposed to do now with the stranger now classmate thing? I can’t even look at him.”

“Well, you probably won’t be seeing much of him unless you’re in the same class. Maybe, the occasional pass by, but that’s also unlikely.”

That’s true. Midtown High is a large school, so there’s a chance of them not interacting at all. 

He’ll be able to flush this crush out of his system and move on. 

Let go like he’s supposed to.


	2. Winter (Part 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So um, hi, it's been a while. I'm really sorry to all of you who have waited for this. The original plan for this fic was that I was going to finish it before I post it, but then my interest in it faded and my brain wasn't allowing me to edit it. I was in the editing mood tonight which is why it's here now. Also, I'm in the middle of writing a pwp, so I’m in that mindset and uh, that’s why I accidentally made this fic nsfw. All mistakes are on me and ik there's plenty of them
> 
> (P.S. I do still need a beta, so if you r interested. hmu in the comments or on my twitter.) 
> 
> I hope that you guys enjoy! ❤

Fate is a fickle thing that Peter’s never quite believed in. 

After all, Doctor Strange did say that there were about millions of possibilities—well, in relation to winning against Thanos, but same difference—which could have happened. A giant slot machine that pumps out events with tokens based on their decisions. 

But at this point, he’s got to believe it because there’s no way that this could be just a coincidence. 

On top of being the same age, they are practically in every single period together—except Photography which Peter is grateful for. At least, it helps that they’re not sitting next to each other in classes with assigned seating and that there’s always room far away from him in classes where there isn’t. 

Plus, he doesn’t seem to remember Peter either, judging by the way the guy hasn’t confronted him on the subject matter yet; a huge relief for him. Maybe, it’s because he actively avoids Quentin like the plague, remaining unnoticed and unseen. 

The stranger’s name is Quentin Beck; he learned as the silvery sound of “Here” reverberated through the room. 

He’s popular—of course, he is with a face like_ that_. Plus, now that he’s freshened up quite a bit from that almost crazed look that Peter first saw him in, he looks even better. Girls seem to fall all over him: pouting their lips and bending in close and giggling while twirling their hair. Not even trying to hide that they’re flirting. But Quentin seems to brush it off with warm smiles and kind words as if oblivious to it all. 

He’s smart too, which only adds to his popularity. Always one of the first ones to raise his hand during class. High scores on tests. Particularly good at sciences. 

It’s really not fair. It’s also not fair that he makes Peter feel like this.

That whenever Quentin looks a certain way, an alarming amount of signals go off in his brain and goes straight down to his dick. The amount of close calls he’s had in the past five hours today is already too much to count. He might as well live in the bathroom at this point. 

But, at least, he hasn’t done anything to embarrass himself. At least, he’s been able to hide himself away from Quentin's sight. 

They’re in Chemistry now and Peter is so thankful that this is the last period of the day.

He’s seated in the back, trying to focus on taking notes, but his attention keeps being drawn to Quentin who’s several rows ahead. He really can’t help himself, not with the way that Quentin occupies a space in his mind, reminding him—nagging him—that he’s there like an itch that can’t be scratched away. Not completely anyways. Peter can’t even see him properly from where he sits; it’s just the back of his head that’s in view, yet that very thing is distracting. 

Quentin existing in the near proximity of him is distracting. 

The sound of chairs scraping against the floor snaps Peter out of his trance. Frantically, he scans the room to figure out what the hell is going on. People are wandering across the room and filing over to the back in pairs. A lab, probably.

“Hey, you’re Peter right?” he hears an incredibly familiar voice ask and Peter’s brain shuts down. 

Every nerve in his body is lighting up, heart beginning to beat faster against his chest, as he slowly twists back to confirm his suspicions and he’s met with murky blue eyes and a pearly white smile that he knows way too well. 

Quentin Fucking Beck. 

Even though it has been days, he can’t handle the times when Quentin even glances in his direction, ducking away during those times; the need to hide going on strong. Now that he’s directly under the guy’s gaze, he doesn’t know what to do or how to react and, oh fuck, Quentin is definitely going to recognize him now as that creep. There’s a part of him that wants to run, yet there’s nowhere to run too. He’s stuck, trapped like a butterfly—or a spider in his case—pinned to the wall.

“Um,” Peter gulps, still trying to get over his initial shock. “sorry, what did you say?” 

“Peter Parker?” Quentin tilts his head to the side a little in a questioning manner. It’s cute and Peter is outright fucked. 

“Yeah, I mean, yes I am,” Peter stammers out, rising to his feet, stumbling slightly as he does. It’s then he notices how tall the other man is. He knew from the start that Quentin was, indeed, taller than him, but being this close to each other exemplifies that fact. 

This observation is weird so to say. Nothing daunting or romantic about it although, just the simple, yet surprising realization that this is all real. That Quentin’s isolated world—which Peter has only been able to watch from afar all this time—has, in fact, collided into Peter’s. 

And, now, Quentin doesn’t seem to be out of reach anymore. 

“It looks like we’re partners,” Quentin says.   
  
“It looks like we are,” Peter replies, not really knowing how to respond. He can’t even think straight right now, mind still trying to reboot itself.

“I’m Quentin, by the way,” Quentin says, extending his hand towards Peter. “Quentin Beck, I recently transferred here late-”

“I know,” Peter says, words slipping from his mouth automatically. “I mean, we’re in a couple classes together and you're new, so you kind of stand out. Um, anyways, it’s nice to meet you.” 

He takes Quentin’s hand into his own—right away noticing the strength in those larger, warm hands—in a firm handshake before quickly letting go. The touch lingers in his palm, disappearing a minute later. He wishes that it stayed for a bit longer. He also wishes that the growing hard on straining against pants would leave. 

If he doesn’t acknowledge, maybe it’ll go away. 

“C’mon, we have to claim a lab table before all the good ones are taken,” Quentin tells him, bringing Peter back to reality. 

He nods along, attempting to act like a normal human being who doesn’t have a gigantic crush on a guy he knows almost nothing about. 

They’re able to claim a decent table: not too much tape or cracks on top and not too much gum underneath. There’s equipment already set up on the black counter top: a large, thin glass tube held by a metal stand with a valve-like object that’s locked on the slimmer bottom of the tube and several beakers containing unknown liquids next to it. A small stack of papers and two pairs of rubber, safety goggles have been laid out on the table as well.

Quickly, Peter skims through them to grasp a basic understanding of what the lab is. Measuring pH levels of unknown liquids. It doesn’t seem too difficult. 

“What does it say?” Quentin asks, now wearing the clear goggles, standing on the other side of the table. It’s a relief that they won’t be on the same side; he would literally explode if they were merely inches apart from each other. Plus, that way he can hide the fucking tent in his pants which is thankfully dying down. 

“So basically we have to fill the burette” Peter points to the tube, still staring at the sheets. “With a beaker full of water and add the liquid a drop at a time, using this stopcock,” He moves his hand to the valve. “into beakers of unknown solutions and watch until the liquid turns a different color”

“Sounds tedious,” Quentin mumbles quietly as if he were deliberating over something.“We can take turns. Divvy up the workload.” 

“Sounds,” Peter begins as he looks up from the papers to find Quentin staring directly at him. Warmth rises to his cheeks and he reflexively diverts his attention back down and now, he can see the slight, yet obvious tent in his jeans. Shit. “good” 

“I’ll go first if that’s okay.”

“Um, yeah. Go ahead, that’s fine,” Peter blurts out, trying to calm himself and pulling out a chair from underneath, so that it doesn’t seem weird for him to be looking down. 

They don’t speak much after that. Well, he can’t hear anything with the way he’s so focused on getting his dick to soften.

As the minutes tick by, Peter can feel the stupid half chub to go away and confidence builds inside of him slowly, but surely. And once it’s gone, he looks up.

Quentin’s in full concentration: hand on the valve as pupils are focused on every single drop that falls from the end of the burette. His teeth are digging into the thin, pink flesh of the lower lip, reddening the color and Peter can now see the little mole settled on the upper corner that he couldn’t see before from so far away. His chest gradually rises and falls as he leans against the table. 

Peter finds himself following the rhythm, trying to sync their breathing together.

And the closer he gets to matching it, the more their worlds seem to solidify into one. 

\---

Nothing has really changed since that special moment and Peter doesn’t really mind. 

Their relationship has remained exactly the same: almost nonexistent. But they have gotten to the level of acknowledging each other’s existence in the halls with curt nods and small smiles. It’s kind of nice. A small step forward from what they had before. 

Yet, even so, it feels like a drastic step. 

Ever since then, the little obsession that’s been lying in a small part of his brain seems to be overtaking everything. Peter constantly thinks about him, even when Quentin’s not around. The way he laughs, the way he smiles, the way he frowns: all stuck in his head on a loop. 

It’s annoying, yes, since he can’t seem to pay attention to anything else, but it’s also strange because he doesn’t really know what to do with it. 

There’s no way he can act upon this crush because that’s what it is: just a crush. He’s not ‘in love’ with Quentin, not like how he was in love with Liz, because he’s never even thought about them being together in that way. Right from the beginning, he knew that whatever is going on between them—well, at least going on with himself—wouldn’t extend past infatuation and that still holds up. 

At least, he thinks anyways.

Even so, if all that is true, then there’s really nothing for him to do than just sit with these feelings until they pass.

“You’re pathetic,” MJ had told him when Peter spilled his guts about the situation one day during lunch. Really hard to keep it a secret since he ends up staring at Quentin whenever he’s in the general area. “Look, you should just talk to him, get to know him, or you’ll never figure it out. And that feeling won’t go away”

“Has that worked for you?” Peter had asked in response. 

“Yeah,” MJ had replied, giving a nod and lopsided smile. “Yeah, it has”

Maybe, MJ is right. That he should just speak to him. 

It sounds easy, yet he can’t bring himself to do it. Whenever Peter spots him, questions begin to rumble around in his head: What is he going to do? What he is going to say to him? What if he gets flustered and embarrassing himself? And before he knows it the opportunity has passed. 

That’s how he ended up being stuck here in the rift of emptiness with Quentin’s hand just slightly out of his reach. 

\---

Peter arrives in front of the school for Decathlon practice early today—like he has been for a while now—only to remember that it’s Saturday; he’s here at six in the morning on a Saturday. A winter day where everybody wants to be anywhere but here. Advisers will be slightly late and club members will be even later and now he’s stuck out here alone in puffy jacket weather. Great. 

The dates must have slipped his mind with his constant weariness lately. He can’t blame anyone except himself for it. He’s been trying to pack his schedule to the brim with his double life, training for the upcoming Academic Decathlon, and studying for finals, so that he doesn’t even give himself a chance to think about Quentin. 

Definitely an unhealthy way to cope with his cowardice. Nevertheless, it’s working, sort of, and, well, he doesn’t really know any other way to handle this feeling brewing inside him. 

A small itch in the back of his head tugs Peter back into reality, warning him that something is amiss._Behind you. _Tightening his fist, he whips around to see Quentin Beck standing there and holy fuck.

“Mornin’” Quentin says and Peter unclutches his hand. He thanks whatever mystical force out there that he’s able to stop himself because accidentally knocking your crush out isn’t exactly good. Well, knocking _anyone_ out isn’t good. 

“Uh, morning” Peter says as he ignores the need to run out the door right now. He’s not ready for this; he might never be. That doesn’t dismiss the fact that this is happening. 

“So you’re here for Decathlon practice too?” Quentin asks. 

“Yup” Peter replies a little too quickly, actually meeting Quentin’s eyes this time and they're still kind and warm, but this time those two factors no longer seem too intimidating. Why was he so scared before? “Been on the team since I was a freshman.” 

“That’s cool.” 

Peter gives a little, weak smile as he really takes in the man standing in front of him. Quentin’s wearing a puffy jacket like Peter is—it’s black and long, although, contrasting Peter’s grey and shorter one. A wonder that Quentin doesn’t look like an over sized marshmallow like Peter does right now. There’s an Airpod dangling from one of Quentin’s ears and Peter can hear the soothing beats coming from it. 

It only makes him sleepier.

Peter yawns and the wave of exhaustion that he’s been holding back crashes over him. He regrets that he didn’t stop by a cafe for coffee; fuck saving up for that Millennium Falcon Lego set. 

“Tired?” Quentin asks as he puts the Airpod in his ear into the case and back into his pocket. Peter nods.

“Haven’t been getting much sleep lately because of work and school and shit,” Peter says, blinking away his watery eyes. It’s half the truth. “Been living on four hours and coffee for a while. Except for today. I accidentally drank too much instant and now, we’re completely out. It’s only been a week since we bought that pack of thirty.” 

“Damn, at this rate you’re going to be drinking yourself to an early death.”

“Yeah, I know,” Peter chuckles. It’s light and airy and not awkward. Good. “I’ve already spent most of my allowance on just coffee alone”

“But really, look,” Quentin starts, sympathy bleeding from his expression. Reminds Peter of a sad puppy. “Work really isn’t worth damaging your health. It’s not the end of the world if you just take a breather. Quit if you can, you know, if it becomes too stressful”

“I really should,” Peter mumbles out as he swallows back the ‘But it’s you that I’m trying to quit’. 

“How about this,” Quentin says. “I buy you a coffee today and you promise to take a load off and stop chugging down caffeine? Sounds kind of counter intuitive, but you get the point.” Peter can feel how earnest Quentin is being and he can’t help, but reply with: “Okay.” 

Quentin grins, wide and bright; the corners of his eyes crinkle upward as well. Peter ignores how his heartbeats are overcoming the sounds of the world as he adds,“I mean if that’s alright with you” 

“Of course,” Quentin affirms. “I wouldn’t have offered if it wasn’t.” 

\---

Luckily, there’s a Starbucks right across the street from the school, so walking over doesn’t take them too long and, soon enough, the hot paper cup is finally in Peter’s grasp. He can see the steam rising from the little hole at the top as he gingerly lifts it to his lips to take a sip. 

Immediately, he’s hit by the mellow bittersweet taste and it’s heavenly. 

“Good?” Quentin asks.

“Mmm-hmm,” Peter responds appreciatively, mouth never leaving the lid as even more coffee slowly trickles down his throat, warming him from the inside. How could he ever live without this? 

“Hey, don’t finish it too quickly” 

Peter pauses to shift his attention over to Quentin in front of him who is smiling all pleasantly, almost amused. He can now feel a sort of bubbling sensation in his stomach, bursting with little pops that makes him giddy with glee. 

“Thanks again for the coffee,” Peter says. 

“It’s no problem, really” Quentin waves it off. “You better keep your end of the bargain though”

Quentin winks at him and Peter can’t even deny that his heart does a tumble. Then, Quentin takes a sip of his own coffee: a hot Americano. There’s a distant thought in his mind about that white ceramic mug that lives in the beginning of their story. It seemed so long ago now. Many things seem so long ago. Maybe, it’s because of the fact that his teenage years are marked, making the days seem to slip past like nothing; makes him feel like he’s constantly running out of time that he needs to become better and smarter and stronger.

“We should get going back,” Quentin says. Peter takes out his phone to see that it’s a quarter to seven. That time already? 

“Yeah,” Peter replies, pulling himself back to the here and now. “We should.”

Quentin leads the way. 

The noise of Queens hits them when Quentin opens the glass doors: cars rushing by and people loudly murmuring to the devices in their ears. It’s truly the city never sleeps.

They’re right next to each other, almost shoulder to shoulder, as they walk down the sidewalk. Now that Peter has gotten some caffeine into his system, he’s hyper aware of that fact. Their hands are almost touching, merely centimeters away. Why is he so focused on that? 

“I never got the chance to ask. How did you get on the team?” Peter says, snapping himself out of it.   
  
“Oh, Mr. Harrington asked me,” Quentin states. “since a couple members, the non blipped ones, quit the team as they just want to get high school over with now. Thought it seemed fun and I had the time to, so I agreed.” 

“I see, that’s cool,” Peter replies. He takes another sip of his coffee, pacing himself this time until only less than half remained. 

“Why did you join the team?” Quentin asks. 

“I was also recruited. Mr. Harrington was my science teacher freshman year and thought I was a good fit. I tried it out and got hooked. Plus, it looks pretty good on my college application.”

They both chuckle at that. Quentin’s grinning—all cheerful and goofy; his eyes twinkling and wrinkling upward at the edges. Peter realizes right then that there really is nothing that Quentin can’t do that won’t seem attractive to him. 

“Have you decided which college you want to go to?” Quentin asks, pressing the pedestrian button as they approach the edge of the crosswalk. It changes into the white stick finger only a couple seconds later.

“I mean Empire State would be the dream, but it really depends on if I get a full ride or not,” Peter replies; Aunt May comes to mind as he does. How much work that she puts into providing for the both of them as Peter is off saving the world. How she stands independently through it all, unwilling to take any handouts. He just wants to give her back something—just ease her mind a little. “What about you?” 

“Not, not quite sure yet,” Quentin sighs and a white mist pours out from his mouth. His eyes flicker towards Peter before staring straight again, onto the school right ahead of them. “Probably out of state. Just wanna get out of here, you know”

There’s something about the way Quentin says it that seems strange; it isn’t like how most students say that they want to get out to explore the world or experience life on their own. Instead, there’s a slight melancholic feel to it—a hint of detest maybe.

Peter wonders why that’s so; he wants to ask what makes Quentin want to leave this place so badly. What’s driving him away? 

Before Peter is able to say anything, someone calls out his name from behind: “Peter!”

They turn around to find that it’s Mr. Harrington: completely out of breath and covered head to toe in puffy, warm fabrics, looking like the true marshmallow. 

“And Quentin!” He continues after regaining some of his breath. “You made it! I didn’t think you’d come”

“Yeah, well,” Quentin replies “Like I said, I’d do it if I found the time to and I found the time”

“That’s great. And I see that you’ve met Peter already” Mr. Harrington says, gesturing toward Peter as if he’s completely forgotten about him. 

“Actually, we know each other already. We’re in a couple of classes together. We just got back from getting coffee across the street since we both got here early” 

The way Quentin says it reminds Peter that they’re just acquaintances; they’re borderline strangers who only know each other by name really. Not surprising, to say the least, since Peter does watch more than he interacts, but, maybe a small part of him had hoped that Quentin thought they were something more than that. 

That he was close enough to be acknowledged as a friend. 

“Hey, even better,” Mr Harrington says before sighing out: “It’s too bad that practice got canceled today.”

“The school board suddenly arranged a teacher's meeting today. I’ve already sent the email out to the other members.” Mr. Harrington explains, clearly crestfallen by the fact. “Winter break is starting up as well, so we won’t be able to have any other meetings which means that you’ll be farther behind everyone else.” 

“Oh, I know!” Mr. Harrington starts excitedly, turning his attention to Peter. “Peter, how about you teach Quentin a couple things during the break? Just the simple stuff like rules and common questions, nothing too complicated.” 

He can hear the desperation in his adviser's voice and Peter’s never really been good at saying no. 

“Uh, yeah, sure,” Peter says without really thinking it through. 

“Great,” Mr. Harrington exclaims happily. Suddenly, as if coming to a realization, Mr. Harrington frantically looks at his watch. “Shoot, I’m late. Um, see you next year. Have a good winter break!” 

Then he’s rushing past them and through the double doors, leaving Quentin and Peter alone again. A couple moments pass as the realization of what Peter just agreed to dawns upon him. Hanging out with Quentin over winter break. Seeing him beyond the school borders. Actually being able to get closer to him. 

A chance. 

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Quentin says. Peter’s head swiftly swings to Quentin:

“What?” 

“The tutoring,” Quentin answers as he also turns towards him. There’s this sad puppy dog look on his face and Peter is absolutely weak for it. “You’re probably busy with work, right? I’m sure I can figure it out on my own” 

“No, no, no it’s fine,” Peter replies rather hastily, shaking his head, and he hopes that it doesn’t come off as creepy. That he’s a little too excited to hang out with Quentin. “School’s out, so I have the time.” 

“Plus, It’s not like we’re going to be meeting every single day,” Peter continues, but he secretly hopes that they could.

“You sure?” 

“Yeah, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it”

Quentin’s face brightens up at that and there’s a fuzzy feeling in Peter's stomach. It’s a little different from the feelings that he had before. 

“If you say so,” Quentin says as if he were relieved. Like he wants to spend time with Peter. Maybe Peter's reading too much into it, but he can still allow himself to dream. 

“We should exchange phone numbers to, you know, plan out the dates.” Peter silently praises himself for not sounding too awkward or too thrilled about the whole thing. He has to act cool. Act like he totally didn’t think about how hot Quentin is when Peter first saw him. Act like that didn’t happen at all. 

“Yeah, that sounds like a good idea.” Quentin then takes out his phone—a smartphone similar to Peter except it’s a newer, sleeker, and not half broken version of the device—from his jean pocket, quickly tapping on the screen before passing it to Peter. “Here, put your number in” 

Peter takes the phone and swiftly types in his number. When he hands it back, Quentin gazes at the screen for a bit, smile growing into a grin, and then replies, “Great, I'll text you in a bit” 

Shoving his phone back into his pocket, Quentin turns back to look straight at him and continues, almost shyly, “Um, hey, would you like to-” 

Suddenly, a particularly loud ringtone begins to play. 

“I’m sorry,” Quentin says as he tugs out his phone again; a little perplexed by it all. He looks at his phone, blinking once or twice before tapping a button and turning his attention back onto Peter, awkwardly chuckling. “I have to go” 

“Um, okay,” Peter responds worriedly. He wonders what’s got Quentin so flustered about. Who the caller is? 

“See you sometime over winter break!” 

“Yes, um, see you then” 

Quentin is then running off: across the street and out of view. 

Once he’s completely out of sight, everything that had just transpired suddenly rushes into Peter’s head.

Sighing, he squats down—it’s easier for him to think like this. His heart is basically doing cartwheels right now as his brain rushes to catch up to the present. He can’t believe that he was actually able to survive through that without getting weak kneed or running away like he did all those other times when it seemed like the universe really wasn’t on his side. 

A loud ding sounds in the air and Peter takes out his phone to see a notification—a text from an unknown number—show up between the cracks on the screen: 

** _Hey, it’s Quentin :)_ **

That fuzzy feeling from before is suddenly back now, lodging itself in with all his other feelings. He can feel the heat rising within him, finally settling at his cheeks; he can’t help the smile that is growing on his face. 

Peter sits there and stares at that text for a while.

\---

Peter’s out and about as his alter ego when Quentin texts him again. 

He hadn’t noticed it until his lunch break since Aunt May became pretty adamant about him not texting and swinging after he accidentally crashed into a building and busted his phone even more than it already is. At least, it still works. 

Taking a bite of his pizza slice, Peter stares at the message as he swings his legs to hang over the ledge of the small apartment building he’s decided to settle above for a bit. 

** _Hey, sorry about leaving in such a rush. _ **

** _The maintenance guy ended up coming late and my Dad had to get to work. :(_ **

A slight sense of relief comes over Peter when he reads that; it was on his mind for quite a while, pondering the reasons for abruptness—if it was actually his own fault for acting strange—until he had to take care of a hostage situation on ninth street which required the utmost concentration. 

** _It’s alright. _ **  
** _Totally understand! :D_ **

He manages to type out with his one hand, mostly depending on the magic of autocorrect to carry him through it. 

Only a few minutes later, Peter sees that the message has been read. The three dots appear to show that he’s typing, but then they disappear again and then reappear a moment after. It’s a bit nerve wracking so to say because he has no fucking clue what Quentin’s going to respond with. 

** _I actually wanted to ask you out to brunch today. _ **

Peter’s brain is on the fritz now, eyes repeatedly scanning the message to make sure that he’s reading it right. ‘Ask you out’; Beck wanted to ask him out. Holy fuck. 

Maybe, he’s jumping to conclusions—no, he’s definitely jumping to conclusions. 

But that doesn’t mean he can’t still hope that to be true. His heart is racing, even though Beck isn’t really there. It’s a bit stranger and stronger than the usual swooning at the thought of Beck as if he were here right now without the terrifying bit to it. His fingertips feel hot as he quickly types out:

** _We can definitely do it later_ **  
** _Sometime _ **  
** _If you want to_ **  
** _Maybe on a day we meet for tutoring _ **

The reply is almost instantaneous: 

** _That would be great :)_ **

He smiles as a certain warmth spreads throughout his skin. He allows it for just a moment before the sirens of the city begin to ring, beckoning him. Peter’s about to put his phone away when he hears another ding. 

** _It’s a date. _ **

His heart thumps against his chest and ears, but not racing, not running. It’s not bursting against his chest, wanting to get out. Instead, it’s staying right where it is. Right where it belongs. Like all his feelings for Quentin should be. 

The loud cry of “Help Me!” brings him back from being Peter Parker to Spider-Man—the hero that the city needs right now. 

Sliding his phone back into his pocket and picking up the pizza box, Peter jumps off the building. 

\---

It’s not stalking if the information is public. 

That’s what Peter tells himself as he scrolls through Quentin’s Instagram. 

It’s the middle of the night; the room is pitch black except for the faint blue light emitting from his phone. He’s lying in bed on the brink of passing out—sheer will is the only thing keeping him from doing so. 

He found the account completely by accident.

Just happened upon his account while searching through all of Quentin’s known friends’ Instagram following lists. 

Yeah, maybe he did go looking for it, but nobody will ever know. Besides, he’s not doing anything illegal; he’s definitely done more illegal stuff when he’s Spider-Man. Well, the Spider-Man from before he met Mr. Stark, before he was an Avenger. When it was just him in a shitty suit, trying to do some good in the world. 

That still hasn’t changed, yet at the same time, he feels like everything has. 

Quentin’s account is pretty empty. There’s only a couple of posts, mostly pictures of Quentin with friends or his dad or just by himself being unnaturally handsome in every single photo, crappy lenses be damned. 

One sticks out to him: a picture of the pale blue sky with a caption that read “Back again.” It’s time stamped on that special day when half of all life rose from the ashes. 

Peter thinks about how they both stared at the same sky, how that sky connected them both. 

He falls asleep to that thought: of how the red string of fate tied them together right then and there.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/ophidustar). ♥


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